


I Can Has Boyfriend?

by RobinLorin



Series: Boyfriend From Gascony [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Friendship, Intersex, LGBTQ Character of Color, M/M, Secret Relationship, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-07 22:36:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1916535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinLorin/pseuds/RobinLorin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Aramis couldn’t pinpoint the exact day he noticed something weird going on with Athos. </i> </p><p>D'Artagnan meets the gang.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Can Has Boyfriend?

**Author's Note:**

> POV is an intersex man who also talks familiarly about a trans man, and there are brief mentions of them both being labelled as female in their childhoods. Also mentions a character overcoming alcoholism.

Aramis couldn’t pinpoint the exact day he noticed something weird going on with Athos.

It wasn’t a moment of realization or anything, like when he solved cases and all the puzzle pieces fit together. It was more like a storm gathering at the back of his mind. One day he was chasing a petty thief down a side alley somewhere in the third arrondissement, and the storm clouds broke.

He leaped over a cardboard box. He looked down for a split second and saw a litter of cats curled together and the mother yawning up at him. He hit the ground again and saw the thief squeeze through the mouth of the alley and into a laundromat across the street. Aramis thought, _Something weird is going with Athos_.

Aramis’ realizations usually surprised him like that.

He didn’t have time to think about it again until they had cuffed the thief and went back to the office. Aramis liked calling it “the Agency HQ,” because it sounded like they were in a spy film or something, but Athos and Porthos ignored him every time he said it.

Anyway, he fiddled with his pen and tried to figure out why he thought Athos was up to something. He ended up writing a list, which turned out to look something like this:

 

\- looks at phone a lot

\- leaves drink nights at weird times

\- smiled at my joke the other day (!!!!)

\- bellhop thing

\- knows what lolcats are???

 

The last, he'd realized, had triggered the brain-flash. The mama cat in the alleyway had reminded him of Athos saying "lolcat" with the kind of gravity one usually reserved for words like "taxes" and "carb-free diet."

"Lolcats?" Porthos asked dubiously when Aramis showed him the list.

“Yeah, you know, the ‘Can I Has Cheezburger’ thing, with the cats and the,” Aramis mimed putting paws under his chin. He batted his lashes for effect.

“I know what lolcats are. I mean, why are they on the list?”

“The other day at the bank robbery scene, he understood the witness when she said she was looking at pictures of cats when the robbery happened.”

Porthos waited.

“That’s it?” he said.

“What do you mean, that’s it?” Aramis waved his hands around emphatically. “Last month Athos broke the fax machine trying to copy something in it. And remember when he asked you if Twitter was a kind of sushi?” There was a reason Porthos ran the company Facebook page.

Some of that reason might have to do with Aramis posting dick jokes when he’d had control over their social media, but that didn’t matter.

“Honestly, I’m not sure why you’re hung up on this one,” he told Porthos. “What about Athos laughing at my joke? I thought that was spooky.”

“It’s a meme, Aramis,” said Porthos. Aramis recognized his tone: it was his “letting you down gently so you don’t sulk about it” tone. Aramis was inclined to sulk anyway. “Everyone knows about memes. It’s not 1995.”

Then Porthos paused, and looked at Aramis in the way that meant that he thought something else was going on. Aramis tried to settle deeper into his sulk.

“What’s this really about, huh?” Porthos asked. He nudged Aramis.

Aramis held onto his pout for another few seconds, then sighed. He could never resist Porthos when he asked in that concerned way.

“Anything else on the list could be Athos things. You know,” he looked at Porthos for confirmation and got a nod. Athos things. Leaving drink night early because he needed to drink alone instead. Looking at his phone because he got stock market updates on his phone like a nerd. Smiling at Aramis’ joke because Aramis was actually funny.

Okay, that one was stretching it a bit. (Aramis _knew_ he was funny; it was everyone else who had a bad sense of humor.)

“But this one,” Aramis continued, “means that someone, somewhere, sat Athos down and explained the Internet to him. A concept he’s been very happy having no idea about until now. _And we don’t know who that person is_.”

He was very sure to put that last bit in italics, just to emphasize his point.

He stared at Porthos, and Porthos stared back, and Aramis could see the question straining behind Porthos’ eyes and raising his incredulous eyebrow: _Is this the day we talk about your codependency issues, Aramis?_

Aramis narrowed his eyes back. _That day is never, and also irrelevant. Someone told Athos about the_ Internet. _And he didn’t immediately drown them out with wine_.

Porthos sighed and broke eye contact.

"Could’ve been Constance," he said finally.

"Yeah, but it wasn’t."

"Could’ve been, though."

"Fine,” said Aramis. “We'll go ask her."

* * * * *

“I don’t have time for this nonsense today,” said Constance, slapping a folder onto Porthos’ chest and pushing past him. “And don’t bother Anne, either,” she told Aramis sternly. “Rochefort uncovered a drug smuggling ring this morning and only brought in half the suspects.”

The police precinct was a buzzing hive of activity, with most of the workers making the wrong beeline. Officers called to each other across the bullpen, phones rang, and Treville’s muffled bellows could be heard from the direction of his office. Several cups of coffee had spilled onto the floor and Aramis winced as his shoes stuck to the linoleum.

Constance expertly wove her way through the chaos. She was looking especially pretty today, in a periwinkle blouse and a concealed ankle holster. Aramis had told her so when they’d arrived, and had gotten a fond reminder of their sexual harassment policy and Constance’s accuracy with her gun.

Constance held out her hand and Porthos returned the folder she had given him. "Anyway, why would I be telling Athos about lolcats?" she continued. "They're not very funny."

Aramis raised a triumphant eyebrow at Porthos. "See?"

"See what?" said Constance, frowning between them. "What's this about?"

Porthos steered two officers away from him as they led a handcuffed man to the holding cells. "Aramis thinks Athos has a new friend he isn't telling us about," he said.

Aramis flourished his list. "Look: this is the evidence."

Constance grabbed the list and scanned it. She snorted incredulously. “This is the stupidest thing I’ve heard all day, and that’s including Rochefort telling me he thought a suspicious-looking leaf was cause for a warrant.”

“Harsh,” said Aramis. He spared a moment of pity for Rochefort, who was probably nursing his wounds from the blistering lecture Constance had no doubt given him. Not too much pity, though.

“You haven’t noticed Athos acting different lately, have you?” Porthos asked Constance.

Constance paused, Aramis’ list hanging from her fingertips. (Nails painted blue, Aramis noticed. Did she have a date tonight?)

“Not that I can think of,” Constance said slowly. “At least… nothing...”

“Nothing that would make sense out of context?” Aramis asked wryly.

Constance blinked out of her reverie. “We’re meeting for drinks tomorrow night,” she said decisively. “We can see then.” She gathered up a pile of folders and tried to hand Aramis his list.

He held up his hand. “You keep it. Maybe you’ll have something to add to it.”

“As if I want to encourage this delusion,” Constance muttered. But she kept the list.

* * * * *

By the time they met at the pub down the street from the police station the next evening, Aramis’ list had been revised in Constance’s looping cursive.

“I still don’t know what the ‘bellhop thing’ is,” she said, pushing the paper across the table to Aramis, “but -- oh, here he is.”

Aramis crumpled the paper into his pocket as Athos and Porthos set down their drinks.

“No wine tonight?” Aramis commented. Usually Athos started with a glass and ended up finishing the bottle at least, if not another as well. He glanced at the bartender and thought he looked put out. No wonder; Athos probably paid for half his tips with his wine.

“I thought I’d try something different tonight,” Athos said. “Constance seems to like this beer.” He tilted the bottle toward Constance in acknowledgement.

He sounded all unbearably stuffy and posh when he said it, but Aramis was used to that. No, it was the casual way he said it. _Too_ casual. Like that time he’d pretended he didn’t see Porthos steal all of Aramis’ candy from his desk, and then Aramis had caught him eating Aramis’ Toblerone. (Outrageous.)

Aramis leaned over to Porthos. “Hey,” he whispered. “What about that?”

“Yeah, all right,” said Porthos. He was narrowing his eyes at Athos in thought.

Aramis wiggled his eyebrows ferociously in victory until Constance glanced at him, did a double take, and scowled. Athos looked at Aramis too, and Aramis did his best to look innocent.

“I’m sorry, Athos,” said Constance, “what were you saying about Armagnac? Ignore him.” Aramis pouted at her.

“No, that’s alright,” said Athos, standing up. “Excuse me for a moment.”

He nodded to a surprised Constance. As he slipped through the crowd to the door, Aramis thought he saw Athos take his cell phone out of his jacket.

He whipped around to face Porthos and Constance. “Now, you can’t say that wasn’t strange,” he said.

“You can’t use every little thing he does as proof,” Constance objected.

“No, it was something,” said Porthos. He tapped his fingers on the table. “He’s never gotten beer. I didn’t even know he could drink anything but wine.”

“By the bottle,” Aramis agreed. He picked up Athos’ abandoned beer bottle and swished it. “It’s barely touched.”

“You added to the list, didn’t you?” Porthos said to Constance. “Let’s see what you wrote.”

“It’s just,” said Constance as Aramis unfolded the list, “it’s just, he was smiling the other day, and no one was around for him to smile at. And I heard him asking one of the junior officers about flowers.”

“Flowers?” said Porthos.

Aramis knew what flowers meant. He felt a weight drop into his stomach.

“Yes, flowers to give as a gift,” said Constance.

Aramis looked at the list. Athos looking at his phone; smiling; leaving at odd times; buying flowers.

“He’s dating,” he said.

There was silence from the other two. He looked up to see Constance looking gobsmacked and Porthos looking dubious.

“Anyone else and I’d agree,” said Porthos. “But Athos? The only times he’s dated were when we set him up. And those times didn’t exactly make him want to try again.”

“Athos asked me about what to do on Valentine’s Day,” Aramis said, remembering suddenly. This was more like solving a case: everything clicking into place like gears falling together. _Click, click, click_.

He scrolled back through his texts. “Yeah -- he tried to play it off as casual and I fell for it.”

“You sent him the link to ‘Dick In A Box,’ really?” said Porthos over his shoulder. “That was your Valentine’s Day advice?”

“This is a bad idea,” Aramis said, for once ignoring the chance to defend his (extremely viable) seduction advice. “If Athos has been dating for months and he’s not telling us about it…”

“It could mean that he’s shy,” said Constance. “Or that his significant other is.”

But alarm bells were going off in Aramis’ head. In fact, they were nearly deafening him.

“Yeah, and _she_ was just a recluse. This doesn’t feel right.” He pushed back from the table. “I’m going to go talk to him.”

Constance stood up too. “If you’re going to ambush him, then I’m coming as mediator,” she declared.

Porthos shrugged and stood. “I can hold you back,” he said.

“Very funny.”

Aramis wound his way through the crowd to the door, a sour taste at the back of his throat. Milady hadn’t set off any bells for him, but that was because Aramis had hardly ever seen her. She’d been the perfect policeman’s wife: distant, always traveling. Coming home only to lie in wait for Athos and sink her claws into him.

Aramis pushed through the door and glanced around for Athos. There; on his cell phone, illuminated by a streetlight on the corner away from the noise of the pub.

Athos turned toward the direction of the bar, and Aramis stopped short. He felt Constance bump into him and raised a hand to stop any complaints.

Athos was smiling.

As they watched, Athos said something into the phone. He put a hand to his mouth and turned away, hiding a laugh even though he didn’t know he had an audience.

Suddenly Aramis felt as if they had walked in on a private moment. He motioned for Constance and Porthos to back up. They crept back into the pub, where the chatter and music filled their stunned silence.

Athos was dating someone. Someone who made him smile and laugh. Someone he hadn’t told his best friends about.

Someone who could be breaking his heart.

“Alright,” said Aramis, “here’s what we’re going to do.”

Constance crossed her arms. “I don’t suppose you’re going to say, ‘leave him alone’?”

“Of course not,” said Aramis. “We’re investigators, aren’t we? We’ve got to do what we do best.”

“Investigate?” Constance asked, in the defeated tone of someone who knew they couldn’t stop Aramis even if they tried. Aramis loved that tone.

“Snoop,” he said, with relish.

* * * * * 

It wasn’t that Aramis didn’t trust Athos. He had put his life in Athos’ hands many times, and would again. They were brothers in arms, in blood, in everything.

It was just that Aramis had never seen anything break a person like Milady had broken Athos.

Not that Athos had been a ray of sunshine before The Trial. The only time Aramis had ever seen a grin on Athos’ face was when he had caught a glance at Athos’ e-badge. A testament to the Paris police force’s archaic employee system, it had been Athos’ access key from his first year as a recruit; the picture never redone. Young Athos, with floppy hair and a devastating smile, had been so different from the Athos whom Aramis had known that Aramis had nearly asked whose it was before seeing the name underneath.

No, Athos had always been a moody git for as long as Aramis had known him, ever since Aramis had been a new police officer still wet behind the ears. Getting placed solo with him on cases had been a stroke of -- so he’d supposed -- misfortune, when he rather would have been with his fellow newbie, Porthos, and their mentor, Rochefort.

But Athos hadn’t been such a bad deal after all; he’d had a few years on the force, and was good enough that he had been promoted early in his career. He’d also had a few tricks up his sleeve. He had taught Aramis how to deal with paperwork, how to use the smallest clue to his advantage, how to intimidate a suspect into talking, and best of all, how to skirt the official rules.

He had never laughed, though. Never opened up, never shared. Athos wasn’t a big sharer. Aramis had gladly filled the silence with his own chatter. Athos wasn’t much older than Aramis and Porthos, but his habitual silence and his uncanny way of knowing when they were in trouble made him seem older.

They hadn’t been put together on every case, but Aramis had grown to look forward to working with him. Aramis had convinced Porthos to try a ride-along with Athos, and those two had gotten like a house on fire -- Athos even chuckling once or twice where Aramis could see, in response to one of Porthos’ big belly laughs. And Porthos had that tough, pulled-up-by-the-bootstraps kind of attitude, which Athos obviously respected. Athos would request Aramis for one case, and Porthos for the next. Then the two of them had been promoted and could choose who they worked with, and they’d settled into the desks nearest Athos without a second thought.

The three of them were close, alright, when The Trial shattered the calm.

The papers referred to it as the Milady trial, but that name was taboo in the agency now. Back then, it had been thrown around the precinct like the latest Top 40 pop hit, except when Athos would walk into a room and the whole place would hush.

He’d just walk through with his deadpan expression, shoulders tense and jaw tight, and Aramis would glance at Porthos and they’d fall into step behind him, glaring at detectives until they looked away.

Everyone had been eating it up with a spoon, of course -- a first-class con woman who’d run a crime network right under her cop husband’s nose? A cop turning in his own wife for murdering his brother after the poor bloke found it out? It was a media goldmine.

Aramis had done the decent thing and waited for Athos to tell him about Milady, instead of running to the water cooler and trading gossip, but Athos had stayed increasingly silent (and drunk) throughout. Aramis had caught a few snippets from the news anyway, even though he’d done his best to stay away from it.

Rich society types; met at a party; whirlwind romance; married within six months. She had been, ostensibly, an art conservationist, and travelled for “work.” The news anchors had taken a perverse amount of glee in wondering just what she’d been doing in so many cities, with so many bad men. Those insinuating news anchors had almost made Aramis throw a plate at his TV. Get her for the murder, but stop before the implications that she was a slut, yeah?

The news had also showed clips of her ice-cold smile aimed at the media crews in the courtroom. Aramis had figured he understood why Athos was such a moody bastard all the time, if he’d had to put up with that attitude for years.

And then the bottom of the case had dropped out.

The Trial had been dismissed under lack of evidence, after one of the junior detectives had improperly collected evidence -- “Taken from the goddamn garage, when the warrant only covered the house,” Captain Treville was heard shouting in his office, half an hour before the unfortunate detective was fired -- and Milady’s character witness testified that she was having Milady over for tea when the murder happened. At eleven o’clock at night.

Milady was never convicted.

A week later, Athos had quit the police department.

“The trial has brought too much negative attention to the department,” he’d said in his quiet, steady way, when Aramis and Porthos had rushed him as he tried to leave the station. “I informed Captain Treville that I was resigning, effective immediately.”

“And he was okay with that, was he?” Porthos had asked pointedly.

Athos mouth had twitched downward in the way they had learned to recognize as a concession. Treville had obviously tried to argue him out of it, but Athos with his mind made up was like a dog with a bone. A dog tied to a heavy, self-sacrificial bone that was thrown into the Seine and sinking fast.

Aloud, Athos had said, “You two have promising careers ahead of you. I wish you luck.” Then he’d nodded at them and left, like that wasn’t the shortest and stupidest goodbye Aramis had ever heard.

Athos hadn’t even cleaned his desk out. Porthos had dug through the drawers and found abandoned bits of Athos’ life: a sudoku book, a small pile of dog treats, a battered paperback, and the framed marriage photo that used to sit atop Athos’ desk.

Porthos had looked at Aramis, and Aramis could tell they were both thinking the same thing.

He’d said it aloud, since someone had to. “He’s sure as hell not leaving us behind too.”

Porthos had grinned roguishly. “Let’s go get fired.”

They had given Treville their resignations that hour. Then they’d gone out and bought the better part of a liquor store and made their way to Athos’ door.

Athos had been living in a cheap hotel through the trial. Aramis still remembered the bare, yellowing walls and the strong smell of cleaning liquid mingling with the bitter scent of alcohol as they’d entered. He still remembered the thick silence, as if the hotel itself -- concrete, plywood, and all -- had been leaning in to watch the three of them sprawl on the hotel room floor and drink themselves into oblivion, on the precipice of fate.

Or, more accurately, the precipice of unemployment.

He still remembered Athos’ head drooping onto the bed, his eyes shut and breathing shallow. Remembered how he’d keep thinking that he should check Athos’ airways and lay him down before Athos would lift the bottle to his mouth again, betraying that one small sign of life.

Aramis remembered spotting Athos’ employee e-badge in the wastebasket. He remembered that glowing grin on Athos’ younger face, one that he been lost to Milady’s cruel manipulations. A smile that would only grin at the bottom of a landfill for the rest of its plastic life.

He remembered seeing all the days of Athos’ life like a set of mirror images reflecting each other into infinity, until they disappeared or you stopped trying to look. Athos barely breathing except to inhale wine. Sitting on a hotel floor and remembering every moment of Thomas’ death and every second of Milady’s trial. Picking apart his memories until Athos, the man, faded and was replaced by a shadow.

“He’s not going to make it outta here,” Porthos had said, some time after Athos had stopped lifting the bottle to his lips and his open mouth was rasping his breath against the bedspread. Aramis had lifted his eyes to Porthos’ face, not surprised after all their time working together to hear his thoughts coming from Porthos’ mouth.

“No, he’s not,” Aramis sighed. “He needed the department. Fuck. Fuck all those shits who bullied him out of there with their sneers and jibes -- “ Athos had shifted and Aramis had stopped. “Fuck,” he’d said again, softly, for good measure.

Aramis had known the importance of a safe space since he was three and he had crawled under the bed after another visit to the doctor’s office. He had been called Renée then, and his Mary Jane shoes had gotten scuffed on the floor.

He had come to find the dark and the dust comforting after every visit of being prodded by doctors, his private parts examined and disdained and dismissed as “abnormal.” He had taken to hiding under the bed nearly every day after Catholic school, trying to forget the nuns’ sermons on sins of flesh and his panicked self-doubt.

The bed had become a safe space for him. Later, when Aramis had told his parents that he didn’t want to go to the Catholic school or the doctor’s office anymore, when he had started wearing boys’ clothes, he had found other places where he felt protected. The roof of his co-ed school was for feeling safely isolated; the school’s LGBTQ club, which Aramis had changed to the LGBTQIA club, was for finding solidarity and understanding; his peers’ beds were for finding sensuality and pleasure.

Aramis had clung to the idea of places where he felt he could lose himself in his surroundings ever since he was a child. He had Porthos’ apartment; his favorite gay bar; his therapist’s office.

And as he had met Porthos’ eyes in that dingy hotel room, with Athos drunk and unconscious between them, he had known that Porthos would have been thinking along the same lines. Porthos would know better than anyone how old wounds lingered. Porthos’ childhood had been a tangle of fighting his way through the world’s expectations of him. Even though Porthos had known who he was -- a boy, not a girl; a cop, not a gangbanger -- others had taken pleasure in telling him what they thought he was supposed to be.

Perverts had thought Porthos was an easy, and female, mark, until he had taught them otherwise. The women who Porthos and Flea had often relied on as family had tried to teach Porthos how to work the street corners, until he had made it clear that he would find another job. Thugs had tried to recruit him, until he had found a way off the streets.

Porthos had hidden his uncooperative body with ratty clothes from Goodwill until he had scrambled far enough out of the shadowed history of his childhood that he could afford hormones. By then, his body had been littered with scars, ones he had added to a few years later when he found the money for top surgery.

But as the physical scars had healed and faded, the mental bruises had still throbbed. Losing a brother to gang violence; surviving homelessness and hunger and all the hard knocks that came with being a street rat. They all added up.

Porthos knew about safe places, seeing as his early life had been hyper-vigilance in unsafe places. He had Aramis’ apartment; Flea’s homeless shelter for queer youth; the fighting ring at his gym.

Aramis had safe places. Porthos had safe places.

Athos had had work.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it, Aramis had thought as he met Porthos’ eyes while Athos snored. Now Athos was scarred and hurting, wounds throbbing, and he had left the only place where he had felt safe. The station had once been free of Milady’s influence. Now Athos was adrift in the choppy waters of a world full of media reports of Milady and whispers about Athos’ involvement.

But Aramis and Porthos could be his anchors.

“We’ll make our own police department, then,” Porthos had said, and the resolve in his eyes that night had burned into Aramis, making him sit straighter and nod mutely, feeling that hot conviction burn him like a live coal in his gut.

They could never erase Milady’s touch from Athos’ past. He would never be the same person he had been before he met her. He would always carry the burden of her with him.

But they could do this for him: make a new place for him; give him structure and bolster him with their strength.

So Porthos had picked up the old-fashioned rotary dial phone from the hotel table and they had made increasingly drunken calls to realtors’ offices. Porthos had read the listings out, and Aramis had vetoed.

The next morning they had dragged Athos, over his many mumbled protests, to the realtor’s office. He had stared at the lease agreement for the nicely situated, two-room-plus-kitchen office space they had found, and said, “What.”

They had explained.

A few minutes later, he’d said, “Are you out of your bloody minds.”

A few minutes after that, he’d ended his rant with “...throwing away your entire careers, not to mention your good names, for this no doubt rat-infested wreck of an empty space?”

“Yes,” Aramis had said, quite bored by then and fighting a hangover. He was losing to the headache, and he wanted to find coffee as soon as possible. “Now sign the lease and put your name down as our backers. You’re covering our first month’s rent, by the way.”

Porthos had added, “We’re not the greenhorns you trained up. We’ve been at this long enough to know what call to make. This is our decision.”

Athos had ignored the lease, and the offended realtor, and had stared at Aramis and Porthos for a long minute. Then he had bowed his head, picked up the pen, and signed every page.

Porthos had clapped Athos on the back. “Good man,” he’d said. “Now let’s find some breakfast. My head is killin’ me.”

And thus -- after much grumbling, haranguing, moving of furniture, signing of papers, and debates on who got the corner desk by the radiator -- the Musketeers Agency had been born.

They’d gotten cases, in part thanks to Aramis’ friendly and outgoing nature (which, no matter what Athos said, was an asset, not a liability). They’d gotten an official affiliation with the Paris police, thanks to Treville.

They’d saved cats and found kidnapped women (and helped not-so-much-kidnapped-as-runaway women escape) and arrested murderers and replaced light bulbs and learned how to cozy up to clients who could conceivably withdraw their payment at any time. They’d printed business cards and learned how to pick locks and “borrowed” equipment from the ME’s office.

They’d played nice with the detectives who’d snubbed Athos, and they’d made a name for themselves inside the precinct and out. They’d wrestled politicians (figuratively) and dinosaurs (literally). They’d shaken hands with the mayor and been invited to parties and saved several illustrious clients from tragedy, or at least embarrassment. They’d learned how to balance each other out and help provide what the others needed.

And through it all, Athos had never laughed.

That isn’t to say that he was a wet sack all the time. He was still Athos. That is to say, he was sarcastic, smug, prone to breaking rules, and disposed of the infuriating habit of being right too often. He smiled sometimes, mostly at Aramis getting chewed out by Treville or at Porthos trying to shake off another toddler that had latched onto him. But if Aramis had thought that Athos was a grump while they were police, all records were broken by Athos’ grouchy days in the beginning. They could’ve started a new reality show about it: Extreme Frowning.

Aramis had tried hooking Athos up with some dates. Every man could do with some action to break a funk, right?

Well, those attempts had nearly set Athos back into the bottom of the bottle. Ninon was sharp-witted and funny, but too career-oriented to deal with Athos’ baggage. Marsac was … well, the less said about him, the better. Definitely not a good fit for Athos’ first time dating a man, either.

Athos had warned Aramis off with the threat of giving the contents of his little black book to every single one of Aramis’ exes. Aramis had backed off and, true to his word, he hadn’t tried to hook up Athos up with anyone since.

And now Athos had gone out and found his own person to date. Someone who made him laugh like Aramis had only seen a few times in all his years of knowing him.

Athos had good taste, probably. No, that was a bald-faced lie that Aramis was telling himself to feel better. Athos had the worst taste in most things: wives, wine, facial hair, etc. He wore flannel, for God’s sake. He should be grateful that he had Aramis to steer him away from most of those horrible decisions.

If Athos wasn’t letting Aramis interfere with this decision, then Aramis was going to have to interfere all by himself.

* * * * * 

Aramis made sure the office door was locked behind him as he and Porthos crept in. It was still early morning and Athos wouldn’t be in for at least half an hour. Aramis scuttled over to Athos’ desk.

“He’s got to have some secrets hidden in here,” he said. “He’s always writing shit down.” He took a pencil from Athos’ pen holder and ran the side of it gently across the top page of Athos’ notebook.

He reached the end and frowned. The page was a solid block of graphite, with no imprints from prior use. “That always worked in the Hardy Boys,” he mused.

Porthos shouldered him out of the way. “Alright, move over, Inspector Clouseau.” He took Aramis’ place in front of Athos’ desk and slid open the top drawer. “Athos writes all his notes in Sharpie,” he explained. He withdrew a sticky note and thrust it triumphantly at Aramis. Aramis narrowed his eyes at Porthos’ smirk.

There were directions on the note. “Do you recognize this?” Aramis asked Porthos.

“No. Here, I’ll put it in Google Maps.”

“Oh, there’s an address at the bottom.” Aramis squinted at Athos’ terrible scrawl and read out the street number. Porthos typed it in.

“Rue Jacques Community Center,” he said. He looked up at Aramis. “Want to go for a donut run?”

“As long as we can actually get some donuts on the way,” Aramis agreed.

Fifteen minutes later, Aramis was licking powdered sugar from his fingers as Porthos eased open the lock-picked door of the community center. Aramis cast around for something that might explain why Athos had come here, like a big red arrow or a talking guide.

There was a bulletin board to the left of the door. Aramis found a homemade “lost cat” sign, a poster for student jobs, and a flyer for a macrame club, before Porthos swore and directed Aramis’ attention to the center schedule that hung at the top of the board.

At eight o’clock on Fridays, the local Alcoholics Anonymous gathered in the center basement.

“You think that’s it?” Porthos said without looking away from the board.

“Unless he’s here for macrame on Sundays, I’d say that’s it, yeah.”

They stood in silence for a minute, and then Porthos whistled low and turned away.

“This is big,” he said.

“Yeah.”

Porthos glanced at him. “Do you still want to…”

“Oh, yeah.” Now more than ever, Aramis had to know who this person was.

“Okay,” said Porthos. “Just don’t be surprised if he finds out and flips.”

Aramis stared at the bulletin board without really seeing it. He said slowly, “Maybe he wants us to find out.”

“He wants us to find out about his secret relationship. Alright, that sounds logical.”

“Hear me out,” said Aramis, the thought coalescing into a solid idea. “He’s been at this for months. He hasn’t been very discreet, has he? Leaving notes around and making calls in the middle of our nights out.”

“You think he’s been waiting for us to notice.”

“You know Athos. Why make things easy if they could be so much more difficult?”

* * * * *

Aramis got his chance a few days later.

More accurately, he made his chance a few days later. He wasn’t the type to wait around for fate to happen to him.

He had the scene set perfectly: lunch in their usual café, the corner booth; Constance for the soft touch; Athos content after a case successfully closed. Aramis motioned for Porthos to sit in the booth first to leave Athos an escape route, just in case.

“So,” Aramis drawled after the waiter had taken their orders. “How was your date, Constance?”

“How did you know?” Constance asked, looking cross.

“I can always tell,” he leered.

“Well, joke’s on you, because we didn’t have sex,” said Constance primly.

“I only meant that you’d painted your nails and gotten your hair done,” said Aramis, all innocence and wide eyes. “What a dirty mind you have, my dear.”

Constance leaned forward and dipped her fingers into her glass. She flicked Aramis with water. A bit like a cat owner reprimanding her misbehaving cat.

Aramis shook his head and sent droplets flying. “Maybe your date could introduce me to a friend.”

“I doubt it,” said Constance, sounding amused.

“Come on. I’m sure we could all do with a nice time. Ask your date if they have a friend for each of us. I’m sure Porthos wouldn’t mind. Athos too. You're not seeing anyone, right, Athos?”

“I thought I told you what would happen if you ever tried to set me up on a date again, Aramis,” said Athos. He was watching Aramis as if he knew what Aramis was up to. Aramis checked his body language in a quick sweep: shoulder blades touching the seat back, but spine relaxed. Shoulders loose and legs spread. Comfortable.

“It doesn’t count if Constance does it,” he told Athos. “Besides, I’m sure you could do with a date. Hasn’t it been long enough? Why not try your hand again?”

“I’d rather not,” said Athos in a solid deadpan. C’mon, couldn’t he give Aramis something? Anything?

Of course, it was just when Aramis was about to give up that Athos said it, because he was an obstinate bastard.

“I don’t need a date,” Athos said. “I’ve already got a boyfriend.”

He timed it perfectly. The waiter appeared at the moment with their lunches, and they all had to thank him and and take the plates. Aramis fumed with impatience under the cover of polite inanity.

“You’re pulling our leg, right?” said Porthos once the waiter had disappeared again. “You, havin’ a boyfriend? That’s a joke?”

“Not at all,” said Athos. He broke a roll in half and dipped it into his bisque. “I’ve been seeing him for some months.”

Aramis stopped himself from blurting out, “I knew it!” As a rule, he tried to never admit that Athos had the upper hand.

Instead he took care to affect unconcern and sprawled in his chair. “Oh, _that_ boyfriend,” he said. “How I could I forget; you never shut up about him.” Athos looked away and Aramis felt a twinge of guilt.

“Now, Aramis,” chided Constance, “don’t be too hard on him. Athos must have his own reasons to keep quiet about seeing someone.”

Porthos nodded. “You know what it is,” he said thoughtfully. “This guy must be incredible for Athos to keep him all to himself. I bet he was trying to spare our feelings.”

“Oh, yes,” said Constance, wide-eyed. “Oh, he’s probably even more handsome than Aramis. No wonder you wanted to keep him away from us, Athos.”

“He’s probably got better hair too.” Porthos snickered and Constance broke down into giggles.

Aramis scowled at her. So much for the soft touch.

When he glanced at Athos, he found him looking fondly into his soup. Constance’s hair insults seemed to be having a positive effect on him. Aramis mentally resigned himself to the cause.

“No one could have better hair than me,” he said. “But I bet he’s got a better throwing arm than you, Porthos.”

Porthos stroked his goatee, too caught up in the spirit of things to take offense. Porthos was better than Aramis that way. “I bet he’s ripped,” he said. “Muscles all over, built like a brick house.”

Aramis glanced at Athos again and saw his upper lip twitching. Success! He mentally fist-pumped, then pretended he hadn’t. Porthos thought fist-pumping was juvenile, and Porthos could always tell what Aramis had been doing inside his head.

Constance picked up the thread. “I bet he’s got a huge... mansion,” she said. “And -- ooh! I bet he’s a firefighter. He rescues kittens from trees.”

“I bet he bakes too,” said Aramis. “He takes cookies to all the little old ladies on his street.” He sent a sugary look across the table to Athos. “You’re the luckiest man, to have such a perfect boyfriend,” he sighed theatrically.

“He’s not quite perfect,” Athos said. “In fact, he’s from Gascony.”

Constance snorted into her soup.

“My God, you’re dating Treville,” Porthos said. Constance choked and Aramis thumped her on the back.

Athos shook his head. “Wrong age bracket. Besides,” he added quickly before Aramis could jump on that, “you don’t know him.”

“That’s awfully confident,” said Porthos. “Where’d you meet, then?”

“Somewhere you’ve never been,” said Athos.

“If you’re going to answer in riddles,” sniffed Aramis, “then maybe we won’t ask at all.”

“Perhaps that’s the point, Aramis,” said Constance. She glared at him meaningfully. “Now eat your food.”

Porthos jerked his head toward Athos, and Aramis looked at Athos out of the corner of his eye. Athos was staring at the table and fiddling with his soup spoon, despite having finished his bisque.

Aramis opened his mouth to say something, but Athos got there first.

“It’s still… new,” he said. He set the spoon down as if suddenly aware of his fidget and looked up at Aramis and Constance across the table, and then Porthos next to him. He straightened his back. Aramis recognized Athos attempting to pull his good breeding around him like a cloak. Athos was too far removed from his childhood society, and had spent too long in the company of the other three, to hide behind it completely. Aramis knew that the shadow in Athos’ eye and the hesitation in the slope of his shoulder would be as visible to the others as they were to him.

“I want to be sure about this before I introduce you to him,” Athos said. He took another breath, like he was going to say something else, but just let it out slowly.

Constance reached out a hand and Athos put his into it.

“Of course,” she said. She squeezed his hand. “We understand. We just want to look out for you. Don’t we?”

She directed this at Aramis and Porthos, who both nodded. They knew the wisdom of agreeing with whatever Constance said.

That didn’t mean that they had to stop the teasing, though.

* * * * *

Once the secret was out, the signs were so obvious that Aramis kept kicking himself for missing them for so long.

Athos checked his phone at least ten times a day (a feat for him), and he smirked or smiled or did that lip-twitch thing at whatever was there at least every other time. He excused himself for calls in the evening, most often when they were all out for drinks.

That was another thing, the drinks. Athos stuck to a beer each night they went out. Aramis and Porthos knew about the AA meetings, and presumably Athos knew that they knew, but none of them said anything. Porthos distracted Athos when he cast longing looks at the bar, and Aramis was careful to keep his own drinks to a minimum as the evening went on (the power of solidarity, or whatever). Athos didn’t thank them but he sighed and nodded slightly when he noticed. It was the way they worked.

Meanwhile, Aramis did his best to keep the teasing at a constant state.

“I guess Perfect Boyfriend will miss his chance to show us all up on Friday,” he’d call over his shoulder after they’d make plans to meet after work. Athos would roll his eyes (fondly, Aramis thought).

Porthos would volley back with, “Nah, he’s parachuting into a war zone that night.”

“What a heroic and selfless man,” Aramis would say. “I hope he gets that done in time for his Pilates class.”

Porthos would tsk and shake his head. “He’s gonna be held up with adopting all those orphans. It’s a shame.”

At that point Athos would leave the room pointedly, and Aramis and Porthos would break into extremely dignified cackling.

Constance would sit down at their table on drink night and say, “I’m probably not as good a painter as Perfect Boyfriend yet, but my night class instructor said I’m getting better.” She would beam around at them all. (The best thing about Constance making cracks was that Athos couldn’t even get mad at her for them. No one got mad at Constance.  At least, no one who loved adorable, bright-eyed things or who valued their lives.)

Gradually, Perfect Boyfriend became a part of their group: an ever-present specter, hovering on the edges of their thoughts.

Still, not knowing who Perfect Boyfriend was made Aramis antsy. Athos had said during that revealing lunch that he wanted to “be sure” about his relationship with Perfect Boyfriend before he brought him over. If more than a few months wasn’t serious enough, then Athos must be looking at years in the future. Years with this man.

The sheer scope of it dizzied Aramis.

He had never been in a relationship for more than a few weeks, after Isabelle had broken up with him years ago. In his more melancholy moods, Aramis had wondered if he just wasn’t cut out to be with someone long-term.

But this was Athos. Aramis didn’t know much about how Athos was hard-wired; whether he needed the long relationship. All Aramis knew was that the other time Athos had committed to one, it had messed him up. Bad.

* * * * * 

“Keep watch,” Aramis told Porthos as soon as Athos left for the bathroom.

Porthos looked up, bemused, as Aramis crossed to Athos’ desk and retrieved his phone from his jacket pocket. “What are you doing now?”

“Finding the contact for Perfect -- oh, you know. The boyfriend.”

Porthos frowned at Aramis. “Don’t you think we should let this go?”

Aramis snorted. “I didn’t know you were born yesterday, Porthos. This guy could be far from perfect, and we don’t even know his name.”

Porthos raised his hands. “I’m just saying, it’s his business.” He peered at Athos’ phone. “How d’you know his password?”

“Nine-six-nine-two,” said Aramis impatiently. “It’s his password for everything.”

He definitely did not jump when Athos said, “He’s under B, if you’re wondering.” Athos crossed the room. “For ‘Boyfriend from Gascony’.” He held out his hand for his phone. Aramis tried not to pout noticeably as he handed it back.

* * * * * 

Aramis idly added a dragon to his doodle of a princess in a tower. The Interpol agent at the head of the boardroom droned on. Something about interagency cooperation, wah wah manhunt, blah bloo high-profile.

Suddenly inspired, Aramis added a beard to the stick figure in the tower. Then to the knight on the the ground below, he gave long, flowing locks and a six-pack. The figure in the tower (now a prince, albeit with hair that reached the ground) got a speech bubble that said “Save me, Perfect Knight!”

Aramis reached for a yellow highlighter to color the hair in. Captain Treville cleared his throat. Aramis looked up and saw Treville aiming his eyebrow of doom at Aramis. He casually turned his reach into a stretch.

Treville turned away to focus on the Interpol agent again. Aramis slumped in his seat.

Athos, who was sitting next to Aramis, subtly pushed his brown Sharpie toward Aramis without looking away from the front of the room..

“His hair’s brown anyway,” Athos said out of the side of his mouth.

Satisfied, Aramis colored in the hair.

“And the eyes?” he whispered.

“Brown.”

Aramis graciously gave Prince Athos a nice hat.

* * * * * 

“I don’t know about you gents, but I’m ready for a long soak in the tub,” said Aramis. He shook his head in an attempt to loosen the mud that was caking in his hair. It was also caking everywhere else, but the hair was the really important part.

“Not in here, Aramis,” said Porthos. “Go shake outside.”

Aramis gave it up as a lost cause. “I’m going home. We can pick this up tomorrow, can’t we?”

“Yeah,” said Porthos. “Hey, we doing anything tomorrow night?”

Athos, who had been quiet until then, spoke up in an unprecedented event. “We could go bowling,” he suggested.

“Well,” said Aramis lightly. “I think I have to approve of Perfect Boyfriend, if he’s got you going places.” Instead of shutting himself up all weekend.

“Actually,” said Athos, “if there were an extra person there...” he trailed off.

“Yeah, who?” said Aramis, before realizing. “Oh! Sure, of course. We’d be glad to meet him, right, Porthos?”

Porthos stopped gaping at Athos and shut his jaw with a snap. “Right,” he said.

Athos nodded stiffly and exited. Aramis turned to Porthos and mouthed, “Oh my God!”

“I know,” Porthos muttered. “We’d better tell Constance. She’d mess us up if we left her out.”

“You do it,” said Aramis, walking stiffly toward the door. “If I touch my phone right now I’ll drown it.”

* * * * *

Constance insisted on arriving early. Unfortunately, they were stalled due to an unplanned protest in the middle of their route.

“Student protesters,” Aramis spat as they reached the bowling alley. “Now we don’t have the element of surprise. That’s everything on a sting.”

“This isn’t a police operation,” Porthos reminded him gently.

Aramis jerked his thumb at Constance. “She’s police, and this is an operation is to scope out Athos’ boyfriend. It’s a sting.”

They entered the building and paused for a minute by the shoe rentals, looking for Athos.

“That’s him,” said Porthos, craning his neck in the direction of one of the lanes. “And that’s…”

He trailed off. It was very obvious who the person next to Athos was. They were sitting hip-to-hip, with Athos’ arm around him. He had brown hair and dark eyes, and a smile that brightened his face. Currently he was aiming the smile at Athos, who was… Aramis almost reached out to steady himself against Porthos. 

“Oh my _God_ ,” said Constance. “Is that him? He’s a _baby_.”

“Oh my _God_ ,” said Aramis faintly. “Athos is _smiling_.”

Yeah, Athos was definitely smiling, and it was fucking creepy. No matter how bright the grin on the kid’s face was -- and he really was a kid, Aramis shouldn’t have let Athos’ “age bracket” comment go by unremarked -- it was nothing compared to the smile on Athos’ face.

"Looks like Athos has himself a fancyman," said Porthos.

Aramis dimly heard Constance smack Porthos on the arm. "Fancyman? Are you my gran?"

"Ow. Retro slang is cool again. See, ya hoyden? Ow!"

Aramis couldn’t tear his eyes away from Athos. Just then, Athos felt his gaze and turned to see them. He said something to the boyfriend, who turned and saw them as well. They stood up and approached the shoe rentals. The smile was gone from Athos’ face and his shoulders were set tensely. The boyfriend caught Athos’ hand and tugged his arm comfortingly, and Athos visibly relaxed.

Aramis realized that Athos was nervous. Of them.

Shit, this was way serious. Aramis suddenly felt like he was in over his head.

“I’m glad you could make it,” Athos said.

“Of course!” gushed Constance. “We wouldn’t want to miss meeting, uh…?”

“D’Artagnan,” said the young man with another smile. He extended his unclaimed hand to all three of them, nodding at their names in turn. This close, Aramis could see how his smile turned into dimples in the corners. Athos had won the handsome boyfriend jackpot, that was for sure. Now Aramis just had to determine whether d’Artagnan was as trustworthy as he was pretty.

“It’s _so_ nice to finally meet you,” he said to d’Artagnan. “Athos has told us virtually nothing about you.”

Athos glared daggers, but d’Artagnan laughed. “He keeps his cards close to his chest, doesn’t he?” he said.

Well, he wasn’t the vain type. That was a point in his favor.

“Besides,” d’Artagnan continued, “Athos told me he was waiting to tell you until you picked up on it. The way he goes on about your agency, I thought I’d be meeting you all months ago.”

Oh, that little shit.

“He really is perfect,” Aramis said to Athos. “How much did it take for him to come along with you tonight?”

“Excuse me?” said d’Artagnan.

Athos looked pained. “Very funny.”

“No, seriously.” Aramis looked at d’Artagnan. “How much did he pay you to pretend to be his date?”

The kid’s eyes narrowed and he said, “ _What_.”

“Don’t be offended,” said Porthos, and Aramis nearly chortled. Porthos was playing along too! Aramis loved him, he really did. Porthos continued, “We know Athos has a hard time finding dates. Hiring someone to be his date, it’s the oldest trick in the book.”

“In the lurid, bodice-ripping romance book,” Aramis chimed in helpfully.

“If you want, you can leave him now. We’ll take him from here,” said Porthos.

D’Artagnan went pale when he was angry. Interesting.

“How dare you,” the kid spat. “Athos is a gentleman, and a catch. I’m here as his boyfriend, not a favor or an -- an escort!”

D’Artagnan actually let go of Athos’ hand and advanced on Porthos. Jesus, did the kid have a death wish?

“And what’s more,” said d’Artagnan heatedly, “I asked him out, so you might as well accuse me of the same thing!”

Athos, contrary to Aramis’ expectations, wasn’t hiding his face in his hands. In fact, he was looking at d’Artagnan with an expression that Aramis would, on anyone else, describe as “starry-eyed.”

So Athos liked being the rescued prince in the tower, huh? Well, far be it from Aramis to stand in the way of anyone’s kinks.

“Wouldn’t that imply, though,” he drawled, “that Athos is the escort?”

D’Artagnan whirled on him. Porthos looked at Constance and blew out an exaggerated breath of relief as d'Aragnan's laser-beam glare left him. Constance bit her lip to hold in a laugh. 

“I would never ask Athos--” d’Artagnan began heatedly, before he was interrupted by a loud voice.

“Hello? You’re blocking the line,” said the shoe attendant. She was glaring at them, as were the people in the line behind them.

“Of course,” said Aramis. He leaned on the counter. “Five pairs, please.” He rattled off their shoe sizes and guessed d’Artagnan’s.

“I have my own,” said d’Artagnan, pushing his way to the front beside Aramis.

“Bowl often?” Aramis asked him.

D’Artagnan seemed unsure whether to scowl at him or reply civilly. He settled on doing a bit of both, and said, “They’re my sister’s.”

“It takes a brave man to admit that he’s wearing his sister’s clothes,” said Aramis. He draped an arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulder and began steering him to their lane. “But if you can do that and stand up for Athos the way you did, I’m sure you’ll fit in soon enough.”

D’Artagnan gave him a confused glare from his position in Aramis’ armpit. He tried so hard to look scary, bless him.

“That was a test?” he said.

“You catch on quickly,” said Aramis. “Now let’s see if you catch onto bowling as fast.”

* * * * *

Constance smothered her laughter in her Coke as d’Artagnan threw another gutter ball. Ten rounds later, d’Artagnan was looking like a disheartened chipmunk. His impressive bowling shoes had done nothing to improve his scores.

"Look at him," Constance whispered. "He's so precious."

D’Artagnan scowled up at the scoreboard as the others hid their grins. Even Athos, at d’Artagnan’s side, was suppressing a smile.

Athos leaned his arm against d’Artagnan’s, and d’Artagnan turned away from the scoreboard to smile crookedly at Athos.

Aramis’ breath caught as he saw Athos smile back. Maybe all the years of Athos’ frowning had conditioned Aramis or something, because he was almost unnerved by the sheer happiness beaming out of Athos. He looked ten years lighter.

He looked, actually, like the picture on his old employee e-badge, the one he had tossed in the trash after resigning from the police department. He looked like that young, hopeful Athos who had never met Milady. Aramis had thought that smile would wither forever on a plastic badge, and now here it was again, years later, in the flesh.

Athos’ life had been shattered by Milady, and seeing this smile was like seeing that Athos pulled from the wreckage. He could never forget his past, but maybe d’Artagnan could help him clear some of the memories away. Build new memories on top of the rubble. Erase the old and plant the new. Or whatever; some other metaphor about healing.

Porthos sat down next to Aramis and nudged him. “So,” he said.

Aramis knew what was coming: gloating. He said quickly, “Fine, alright.”

“Alright, what?” said Constance from his other side.

“Alright,” Aramis gritted his teeth. “He can stay.”

“And?” Constance prompted sweetly.

Porthos cut in for him. “And we were only looking out for Athos. But,” he added hastily at Constance’s glare, “that doesn’t excuse us trying to find out before he was ready to tell us.”

Constance smirked. "Good." She stood up and brushed herself off. “Now, it’s my turn and I’m going to leave you all in the dust.”

Porthos leaned back, all confidence. “Check my scores. You ain’t gonna beat them.”

"I'm a very good shot," said Constance. "And I didn't even need Aramis whispering over my shoulder to learn."

She flounced off to the foul line.

Porthos flashed Aramis a grin. “She’s just jealous.”

“Everyone is,” said Aramis idly. He was looking at d’Artagnan and Athos. They were standing in between their lane and the next, practicing rolling a ball. Athos had his hands on d’Artagnan’s hips, a classic move that Aramis would usually approve out of principal. D’Artagnan didn’t have his hips backed up into Athos like Aramis would expect. He seemed to be genuinely concentrating on the technique Athos was showing him.

Athos demonstrated a roll and as d’Artagnan’s hand echoed Athos’ movement, the zipper on his jacket caught on Athos’ wrist.

D’Artagnan immediately dropped his stance and turned to face Athos, cradling Athos’ wrist and inspecting it. Athos’ shook his head. D’Artagnan pressed a kiss to the skin anyway.

Aramis stood up. “D’Artagnan,” he called. “Help me with the drinks, will you?”

He headed for the concessions. D’Artagnan caught up a few seconds later, bobbing at his shoulder like an overgrown puppy.

“Hey, do you mind if I ask which pronouns you prefer?” d’Artagnan asked. 

Aramis looked at d’Artagnan closely. Sometimes Aramis wondered if the way he’d been brought up had left an indelible mark on him; whether something in the way he smiled or swung his hips that betrayed the fact that his parents had once thought he was a girl. “Do you ask everyone that?”

“Yes,” said d’Artagnan. He didn’t look embarrassed about it, like some people did after they’d asked. “I prefer him and his,” he added.

Huh. This kid was full of surprises.

“Him and his,” Aramis echoed. “Porthos prefers those, too.”

D’Artagnan nodded but said, "I’ll ask him anyway."

They reached the concessions booth and Aramis ordered a beer for himself, and one for Porthos. For Constance he got a refill on her soda. D’Artagnan ordered a soda as well -- presumably to share with Athos, as they’d been doing all evening. Another point in his favor.

Aramis also ordered a plate of nachos, and they leaned against the wall to wait for them.

“You’re pretty decent, d’Artagnan,” Aramis said. “Athos could do with some decency in his life.”

D’Artagnan shot him a sardonic look. “I guess he doesn’t get much from you.”

“I’m wounded,” Aramis said, “that you’ve figured me out so quickly.”

D’Artagnan grinned. God, he and Athos deserved each other, the pair of smug arses.

D’Artagnan scuffed his sister’s shoe on the floor.

“He told me about Milady,” he said quietly.

“Did he.”

“Yeah. I’m not sure how much he’s told you, and I don’t want to betray his trust, but --”

“Relax,” Aramis soothed. “Around here, we have no secrets.”

“Athos said that.”

“Really?” Aramis said dubiously.

“Yeah, except he said it like, ‘Aramis is the worst example of an interfering busybody that I’ve ever seen.’” D’Artagnan did a pretty good job with the posh accent, Aramis had to admit.

He snorted and did his own posh impression. “You’ve become extremely adept at interpreting Athos-speak into common terms.”

D’Artagnan laughed and pointed at their lane. Athos was squinting in their direction suspiciously.

“That means ‘what are you doing with him?’,” d’Artagnan said.

“Soon we’ll see the ‘don’t make me turn this car around’ look,” said Aramis.

“Don’t make me turn this bowling lane around.”

“I will make you go to bed without nachos, see if I don’t.”

They both chuckled and fell silent.

“I know you’re going to give me the shovel talk,” said d’Artagnan finally. “I want you to know that I would never hurt Athos, and if I did somehow, I’d expect you to string me up.”

“The what talk?”

“You know, the ‘if you hurt him, I’ve got a gun and a shovel ready.’”

“Oh, no,” said Aramis. He let a slow smile spread over his face. “I’m not the one you want to look out for. I’ll do the threatening, oh yeah. But Constance is the one who’ll come after you in the dead of night. Best shot in the police department. Once got a confession out of a kidnapper by threatening to gut him like a fish, and the captain didn’t even reprimand her.”

“Really,” said d’Artagnan faintly. He looked slightly pale.

Aramis saw his nachos coming to the counter. “Come on, let’s go. I think it’s your turn to start a round. Be careful, though; Constance really doesn’t like to lose.”

* * * * * 

The fluorescent lights were flickering off one by one. The janitorial staff were mopping the back lanes loudly as a hint to the stragglers.

Certain stragglers, though, were far too entertained with their attempts to pick apart Athos’ hidden life of the last few months.

“Tell us honestly, how long did it take you to explain memes to Athos?” Aramis asked.

“I think I’d better not tell you, because the truth is embarrassing,” said d’Artagnan. “It’s a miracle he understands lolcats at all.”

“I am sitting right here,” Athos said.

D’Artagnan looked apologetic. “But you never noticed that he was leaving to take calls?” he asked Aramis and Porthos.

“It’s not like he’s our social butterfly,” Porthos defended, clasping Athos’ shoulder apologetically. Athos looked equal parts despairing and accepting of his fate. “He coulda been going out for some peace. God knows we need some, working with this one,” he added, jerking his thumb at Aramis.

“Why were you calling in the middle of the day, though?” Constance asked d’Artagnan. Despite d’Artagnan’s momentary wariness of her after Aramis’ talk of guts and threats, she and d’Artagnan had become thick as thieves over the course of the evening.

“I can imagine why,” said Aramis. Everyone ignored him.

“Mostly I needed to vent,” said d’Artagnan. “There’s a really awful instructor at the academy. I get into fights with him all the time.” He reached out and curled his fingers around Athos’ hand. “But sometimes I just want to talk to Athos.” Athos entwined his fingers with d’Artagnan’s and smiled.

Aramis, Porthos, and Constance still had a lag time of a few seconds after every time Athos demonstrated any kind of emotional display. Porthos recovered first.

“How much longer are you at the academy, then?”

“Three months. I can’t wait until it’s over.”

“You want the uniform?” said Aramis.

“Yeah.” Then d’Artagnan nudged Athos and, like he was replying to a joke, added, “I do love a man in uniform.”

“We don’t really wear uni…” Porthos trailed off. “You bugger!” he said to Athos. “That’s why you didn’t argue about wearing the bellhop outfit!”

“We needed to get into that hotel room somehow,” said Athos, as if he was even in the ballpark of getting off easy.

D’Artagnan laughed. “He sent me a picture of that,” he said. “Very sexy.”

Athos cleared his throat. “It’s probably time to go,” he said.

“Oh no you don’t,” said Porthos. “You’re going to be hearing about this for weeks.”

“I’m sure,” said Athos. He stood up and pulled d’Artagnan up with him.

“It was so nice to meet you all,” said d’Artagnan. He beamed at them. There was a solemnity in d’Artagnan, a quiet sadness behind his eyes. But he still smiled often and he gave his love away so freely. It was no wonder Athos had fallen for him.

Constance darted in and hugged d’Artagnan. Aramis shook his hand, and Porthos surprised d’Artagnan by lifting him off the ground in a bear hug.

The three of them watched Athos and d’Artagnan disappear out the door. There was a moment of silence.

“Guys,” said Constance slowly, “we’ve just met Perfect Boyfriend.”

In the next second, they were falling over the plastic chairs in fits of laughter.

“I can’t believe he tried to fight you,” Constance gasped at Porthos.

Porthos howled with laughter. “I can’t believe he said Athos was a prostitute.”

Aramis tried to stop laughing and started hiccuping instead. “I can’t believe he brought his sister’s bowling shoes. What a dweeb.”

Constance fanned her face. “He’s so darling, though.” She burst into giggles again.

“C’mon -- c’mon, guys,” said Aramis weakly. He was getting the stinkeye from the janitor with the waxing machine. “We should get out of here.”

They pulled each other up and staggered to the exit, trailing laughter. The air was cool outside. They stood for a minute heaving their last laughs and letting the breeze chill their warm faces.

Aramis tilted his head back and gazed up at the stars, barely visible through the city lights.

If he let his vision blur out, Aramis could almost see an endless row of nights peering back at him. Nights like this, when no one staggered home alone to be drunk and miserable; when Athos laughed instead of staring into the distance; when there were five instead of four.

Aramis tilted his head to see Porthos’ face. Porthos seemed entranced by the night sky as well. If Aramis pretended the neon sign highlighting Porthos’ cheek was a moonbeam, then it was almost like they were among the stars, floating in those future days.

Aramis elbowed Porthos gently. “Gets in fights with his instructor.”

Porthos nodded slowly. “Trouble with authority.”

Constance shivered and rubbed her arms. “What are you talking about?”

Aramis let himself fall back to Earth. “Oh, just thinking about the future. You know, d'Artagnan might be better suited to our kind of work than we thought.”

“Your line of work?” Constance scoffed and started the lead the way to her car. “You mean the knucklehead business?”

Aramis opened the driver’s door for Constance with a flourish. She rolled her eyes and got in. He winked at Porthos over the roof as Porthos opened the passenger door. “She’ll come around,” he said.

“I’ve no doubt,” said Porthos. He had Aramis’ back, as always.

Aramis climbed into the back seat and slumped forward to nestle his chin on Porthos’ shoulder. He closed his eyes as the car started and Constance slowly backed out of her space.

Aramis’ last thought before he fell asleep was a moment of satisfaction that he had singlehandedly uncovered the mystery.

**Author's Note:**

> I really can't thank enough everyone who sent me messages of encouragement. Also thanks to Nina, who supplied a phrase that literally snapped everything into place.


End file.
